A marriage hiding secrets

…but forged by passion!

A Penniless Brides of Convenience story. Miss Estelle Brannagh has never met a man who’s tempted her to renounce her hard-won independence—until an encounter with Irish landowner Aidan Malahide blossoms into spine-tingling attraction. He’s carefree and charismatic; accepting his proposal seems practical and shockingly desirable! Yet Aidan is hiding a dark secret, and it will take all of Estelle’s courage to ensure it doesn’t tear them apart…

MARGUERITE KAYE writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland, featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs. She has published over forty books and novellas. When she’s not writing she enjoys walking, cycling—but only on the level—gardening—but only what she can eat—and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis—though not at the same time! Find out more on her website: margueritekaye.com.

Also by Marguerite Kaye

Invitation to a Cornish Christmas

Matches Made in Scandal miniseries

From Governess to Countess

From Courtesan to Convenient Wife

His Rags-to-Riches Contessa

A Scandalous Winter Wedding

Penniless Brides of Convenience miniseries

The Earl’s Countess of Convenience

A Wife Worth Investing In

The Truth Behind Their Practical Marriage

And look out for the next book

coming soon

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Truth Behind Their Practical Marriage

Marguerite Kaye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08951-7

THE TRUTH BEHIND THEIR PRACTICAL MARRIAGE

© 2019 Marguerite Kaye

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Historical Note

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

October 1832 —Castle Duairc, County Kildare, Ireland

A flurry of rain rattled the windowpane, and a gust of wind found a gap in the casement, making the curtains billow. Shivering, Estelle curled up under the sheets, knowing that sleep would never come. How could it, when in a few short hours she’d finally discover the true reason for her husband’s tortured and self-destructive behaviour.

Another strong gust of wind blew the window open. Jumping out of bed, she wrestled to close it over. A storm was brewing in more ways than one. A shaft of moonlight pierced the thick cloud casting a shadow on the lake, illuminating the ruined tower on the island. It looked stark, brooding, ominous, as befitting a place harbouring dark secrets.

Secrets which had already blighted their marriage. They had lived—no, barely existed—in the shadow of those secrets for far too long. Was it too late to salvage something from the wreckage? Tomorrow, the past would be dug up and the truth unearthed. Whatever that turned out to mean, she was determined not to let it destroy them completely.

Chapter One

May 1832 —Florence, Grand Duchy of Tuscany

She first became aware of him in the Piazza della Signoria. It was a Monday morning and she was enjoying her ritual morning coffee. He was perched on the stone balustrade of the Neptune fountain set in the middle of the piazza, trailing his hands languidly in the water, his back to the looming Palazzo Vecchio. His gaze roamed over the same milling throngs that she had been idly observing, a mixture of tourists and Florentines enjoying the morning sunshine.

There were any number of well-dressed and presentable young men among the crowd. What was it about him that particularly caught her attention? Perhaps it was the fact that he was so obviously not Italian. But then, so were a good many of the passers-by. Was it his looks? But he was not handsome, not in the flamboyant, peacock manner of the local dandies who didn’t so much walk as strut. He had light-brown hair, close-cut, with strong rather than striking features. His skin looked weathered rather than tanned, and his nascent beard could have simply been the result of neglecting to shave for two or three days. Unkempt, that was the word that sprung to mind, for his hair, though short, had a rumpled look, as if it were a stranger to a comb, and his clothes, though clearly the product of expensive tailoring, looked as if they had been donned straight from a valise without the intervention of either a valet or a hot iron. Yet she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

How long she had been staring before their gazes clashed and held, she had no idea. Her insides jolted. It was not recognition, for they most certainly had not met before, but an urging, as if it was imperative that they should meet. He didn’t stare openly in those attenuated moments. She had the impression of being subject to a cool assessment, then surprise was registered in the slight raising of his brow, before he turned away as if shielding himself from view, resenting the intrusion on his thoughts.

In the aftermath, her cheeks heated. Had she been ogling him, the very thing that she loathed being subjected to herself? She had become accustomed, now that she had finally come out into the world, to being assessed, to being leered at and even occasionally accosted. Her flamboyant looks gave men the impression that she welcomed close attention. She did not, but she’d come to expect it, and had become practised too, at rebuffing it. Yet this man had done none of those things. She was being fanciful, she decided, for the piazza had been crowded and he was at least twenty yards away. But the fleeting encounter haunted her for the rest of the day.

She saw him again the next morning, in the same square. Not that she deliberately sought him out, certainly not, it was simply that she went to the same café every morning, at the same time. In the ten days she’d been in the city, it had become her habit to sip one of the small, syrupy cups of Italian coffee there, on the pretext of planning her day. In reality, it was simply another way of whiling away the time—something the Florentines did with élan and at which she had been surprised to discover she too was rather adept.

She wasn’t looking for him, but he was there, and her stomach fluttered when she spotted him, not quite as she’d remembered him but—goodness, if anything even more intriguing! He really wasn’t handsome, and yet that added to his attraction and, as far as she was concerned, made him stand out from the crowd.

He wasn’t sitting at the fountain this time, but inspecting the Medici lions in the Loggia dei Lanzi. He was very tall and solid-looking, built more like a man who earned his living from hard labour than a man of leisure. She liked his dishevelled appearance, it spoke of a man who had more important things on his mind, who had neither any need nor interest in setting out to impress. She cupped her chin in her hand, allowing herself to study him while his attention was focused on the statues. He wasn’t wearing a hat or gloves. Unconventional. That too appealed to her. What was he doing here in Florence? Was he alone? He certainly didn’t have the air of a man with an entourage. Or a valet to iron his rumpled clothes!

She smiled wryly to herself, perfectly well aware that she was bending his circumstances to her will. But where was the harm, after all, in indulging her imagination? Wasn’t it one of the reasons that women ventured abroad, to seek romance safe from society’s gaze? Most decidedly not one of her objectives, but she understood well enough the disconnection from reality that travel offered, that allowed a person to behave completely out of character, to flout the conventions which usually bound them. Florence, in the heat of the southern sun, was a city in which passions of all kinds flourished. Until now, she had been a mere disinterested observer, but this man fired both her imagination and her senses. She allowed herself to picture their eyes meeting again as they had yesterday, only this time he would cross the square, sit down beside her and smile shyly. She would smile in return to demonstrate his attentions were not entirely unwelcome.

He looked up, and once again their eyes did meet but, appalled that her scandalous train of thought might be transparent, she dropped her gaze immediately, concentrating on her coffee and the sweet flaky pastry which constituted her breakfast. When she next raised her eyes he was gone, and though she quickly surveyed the piazza she could see no sign of him, as if he really was a figment of her imagination, and had vanished into thin air.

On Wednesday morning, he was seated two places away from her usual table in the café. He nodded, quirked a smile at her, then returned his attention to his notebook. His eyes were blue-green, with a permanent fan of lines at the edges. There were permanent lines on his brow too, and a furrow that deepened above his nose as he studied his notebook, his mouth turned down at the edges with concentration. Every now and then he looked up from his scribbling to stare off into the distance, to smile to himself, then continue writing. And every now and then, when she had been consciously looking in the other direction or concentrating on her pastry, she had the distinct impression that he was studying her, as covertly as she was studying him.

What was in his notebook that he found so fascinating? It was not a journal, she decided, for his absorption seemed far too genuine. Diarists and journalists, she had noticed, made much of their occupation, making a show of setting out their writing and sketching implements, gazing down at the page in search of the perfect word or well-turned phrase, ensuring that those around them understood that they were serious travellers engaged in a serious endeavour, creating a tableau for onlookers to observe the creative process as deliberately as if they were on stage. But this man—no, he didn’t give a damn who was watching him.

This time, she forced herself to leave before he did. He looked up as she pushed her chair back, then hurriedly looked away.

It was Thursday, in the Uffizi galleries that they finally met. She was not particularly drawn to the collection, which was so vast that she felt quite overwhelmed by the sheer opulent beauty of the paintings and the tapestries, but she loved the sense of history that seemed to seep from the walls, even if she knew little about it. As ever, she wanted to see behind the public façade, to open all the locked and hidden doors, to discover the beating heart and all the lost corners too, of what had, extraordinarily, once been an elaborate set of offices. She loved the architecture, the simplicity of the exterior belying the extravagance within. And in particular she loved the view through the high arch at the end of the long narrow courtyard of the River Arno and the buildings jostling on the opposite bank. This was her favourite picture, framed by the gallery itself.

She didn’t see him at first, being absorbed in a little drama that was being played out between a mother and her two children, who had as little interest in the art as she did, and were begging to be left to their own devices to play in the courtyard by the Arno. Their flustered mother was clearly tempted, and equally clearly reluctant to accede to their demands. Eventually, the woman threw her hands up in surrender, signalling that the family dose of culture would have to wait for another day, marching the jubilant pair towards the exit.

She turned, smiling to herself, and walked straight into him. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said in English, not at first realising that it was him, immediately correcting herself. ‘Mi spiace.’

‘No, I’m sorry, it was my fault.’

Surprise, recognition, embarrassment and a kick of raw excitement made her skin flush. ‘You’re Irish!’ she blurted out, for his accent was unmistakable.

‘And your own mellifluous tones betray the fact that so indeed are you. Aidan Malahide, at your service.’

‘Estelle Brannagh.’

He sketched a bow. ‘It is a pleasure, Mrs Brannagh.’

‘Miss,’ she corrected him, blushing as she curtsied.

‘Miss Brannagh.’

Was she imagining his gratification at her single state? They smiled awkwardly at each other. He shuffled his feet, as if he was about to move on, but he made no move. Was this it then, the beginning and end of their briefest of acquaintances? In England, without anyone to make formal introductions, it would be. But they were not in England.

‘What do you make of the…?’

‘Are you enjoying…?’

‘Please,’ she said, indicating that he should continue.

‘I was merely wondering whether you were enjoying the paintings.’

‘I was—it is—there is so much to take in,’ Estelle floundered, unwilling to lie, but not wishing to be branded a Philistine. ‘It can be a little overwhelming. I was going to ask you the same question.’

‘I’ll be honest. I think the building more interesting than the content. The proportions and the perspective of the architecture—that, I could study all day.’

‘I’m so glad you said that, for it allows me to be honest too. This,’ Estelle said, indicating her favourite view, ‘I think it quite beautiful. As to the paintings—sadly, I find myself quite unable to go into raptures over them, let alone transcribe those raptures into my journal.’

‘As every other visitor to Florence does!’ To her delight and relief, he laughed. ‘There now, I knew from the moment I set eyes on you, taking your coffee in the piazza on Monday, that you were different. Most ladies taking coffee on their own have a book or a journal, but you seemed quite content in your own company. Not,’ he added hastily, ‘that I’ve been spying on you, it’s merely that I noticed you.’

‘It’s my hair.’ Self-consciously she put a hand to the nape of her neck. ‘Redheads are not very common here on the Continent.’

He studied her for a moment, one brow raised. ‘You must know perfectly well that you are a beauty, and an uncommon one at that.’

‘Not so very uncommon at all, actually. I have two sisters, both also redheads and very similar in looks.’

‘Ah now, I’ve put your back up and I didn’t mean to. It’s why I didn’t speak to you, though I wanted to. I reckoned you must be sick of being accosted, and—well, as I said, you’d an air about you, of being perfectly content in your own company. Which I’ll leave you to now.’ He sketched another bow. ‘It was a pleasure, Miss Brannagh.’

It took her until he had turned his back and taken two steps to summon up the courage to call him back. ‘Mr Malahide, don’t go just yet.’ But as he turned, her nerve was already crumbling. ‘You probably prefer to be alone—I noticed that you too seemed very content in your own company, but if you would like—oh, this is too awkward.’

‘It is indeed,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘You know nothing about me, and under normal circumstances, my being very much aware of that fact, I wouldn’t dream of inviting you to take coffee with me.’

‘Or perhaps an ice?’

‘Or indeed, an ice. Would it be presumptive of me to issue such an invitation?’

‘An ice, in a café in full public view,’ Estelle said, ‘hardly an unseemly suggestion. Admiring art is very tiring work. Your invitation isn’t in the least presumptive, Mr Malahide, it is very welcome, and I am happy to accept it.’

They sat in a café in another of Florence’s many piazze. Mr Malahide drank coffee. Estelle ate a gelato flavoured with lemon.

‘What brought you to Florence?’ he asked her.

‘The pedantic answer is a ship. I sailed from Nice to Leghorn.’ She contemplated a spoonful of ice, allowing it to melt on her tongue before continuing. ‘In terms of my thinking, notwithstanding my views on art, all the guide books insist that no trip to the Continent is complete without a visit to Florence—so here I am.’

‘You’re travelling around Europe on your own!’

‘Is that so surprising?’

‘Yes,’ Mr Malahide said frankly. ‘You must be an extremely intrepid young woman, with a remarkably complacent family back in Ireland.’

‘Oh, as to that, my parents died ten years ago, and I’d label them rather more indifferent than complacent. But that is not to say that I’ve no one to worry about my welfare,’ Estelle added hurriedly, castigating herself for her indiscretion, even if it was the truth. ‘My Aunt Kate, who took us girls in when we were orphaned, would do plenty of worrying, were it not for Eloise—that is my eldest sister. She has done a great deal to grease the wheels of my wandering, so to speak, and to ensure that none of them worry needlessly about me either. I have a portfolio of names and addresses, letters of introduction, lists of people in every city I can turn to if I need help of any sort.’

‘Your sister must be extremely well connected.’

‘And practical. Her husband is—was—in a senior position in the government. Thanks to him, I’ve had my currency changed, accommodation recommended, and my papers accepted at every border without question. I promised to ensure that someone on my list knows that I have arrived, and someone knows where I am headed next so that my sister can keep track of me. So, you see, I’m not really very intrepid at all.’

‘I beg to differ. Intrepid, and modest with it,’ he insisted, eyeing her with flattering respect. ‘How long have you been travelling?’

‘I left England back in June. Since then I’ve been to France, Spain, Portugal and now Italy.’

‘Good Lord, that’s quite a tour. Will you be publishing your journals when you return home?’

‘Shall I? Tales of a Single Lady Traveller,’ Estelle opined, slanting him a mischievous smile. ‘It’s the whole point of travelling, isn’t it, to share one’s experience with the world, to prove that travel is elevating.’

Mr Malahide eyed her sceptically. ‘I could be wrong, we have only just met, but you don’t strike me as either a diarist or an educationist.’

‘You are sadly right. To be honest, I have not once felt in the least bit elevated by any of the paintings or the tapestries or even the statues in the Uffizi, though I assure you, it is not for want of trying. They say, don’t they, that the more one stares at a painting, the more one appreciates it. Well, I have stood in front of countless Old Masters trying to absorb their greatness. I am beginning to think,’ she concluded sorrowfully, ‘that I am a heathen. Or perhaps my female mind is too feeble for the task.’

She was pleased to note that he was not in the least bit taken in. ‘And I am beginning to think that your female mind, far from being feeble, takes great pleasure in making fun of conventional wisdom. I’d also hazard a guess that what you really like is to observe real people, rather than portraits on a wall. An Englishwoman alone would sit in that café only long enough to finish her coffee,’ Mr Malahide added, seeing her surprise. ‘You take your time, content to simply watch the world go by.’

‘Ah, but that may be because I am simply empty-headed.’

‘I already know that is far from the case.’

‘But indeed, Mr Malahide, my ignorance of culture knows no bounds. My education was—well, let’s say sporadic, at best. My parents, like many others, it seems to me, considered education wasted on girls, and therefore money spent on governesses squandered, so we three sisters had scant experience of either.’

‘Three sisters?’

‘I have mentioned Eloise. I also have a twin. Phoebe is a chef—chef patron, actually, for she owns her own restaurant in London. Le Pas à Pas, it’s called—have you heard of it?’

‘I’m afraid not. I haven’t had cause to visit London in some time. Is it a popular restaurant?’

‘The most lauded in the whole city,’ Estelle said proudly. ‘It only opened in April, but already she has plans to open another.’

‘I know little of such things—I’m afraid I view food as fuel—but isn’t it quite unusual to have a female chef patron?’

‘Extremely. In fact Phoebe may even be unique.’

‘So the pioneering spirit runs in the family?’

‘If it does, then my sisters have the full quota between them. I’m no pioneer, Mr Malahide, I’m simply a purposeless wanderer, who has taken up far more than her share of the conversation.’

‘Sure,’ he replied in a much-thickened accent, ‘are we Irish not famed for having the gift of the gab?’

‘Nevertheless.’ Estelle pushed her empty dish to one side. ‘That’s quite enough about me. Tell me, what brings you to Florence?’

‘I’ve come to study mathematics. I know,’ he said, holding his hands up and laughing at her bemused expression, ‘a confession guaranteed to stop any conversation in its tracks. I’m also well past student age, but that’s what I’ve been doing none the less, for the better part of the last year. And now I can see you’re revising your opinion of me entirely, from someone you’re happy to while away a convivial hour or so with, to a crusty academic who prefers equations to words.’

‘Or a puzzle you’ve tempted me into solving, more like,’ she retorted. ‘You’re as likely a crusty academic as I am a—a…’

‘Blue-stockinged diarist?’

‘Precisely! Good grief, I hardly know what to make of you now. Do you intend to become a teacher? Or a college fellow—if that is the correct term?’

‘Neither. I study for the sheer pleasure of acquiring knowledge, having granted myself a year’s sabbatical. Though that’s up at the end of August.’

‘And what is it, may I ask, that you took a sabbatical from?’

‘Real life?’ His smile faltered. ‘I turned thirty last August, just before I left Ireland, and it seemed to me that I needed to—to get away for a while. So that’s what I did.’

Get away from what? Estelle wondered, but before she could ask, he pre-empted her. ‘I’m lucky, I’ve an excellent estate manager, but it would be unfair to expect him to hold the fort indefinitely, so I’ll need to return home soon. What about you, is there any end in sight to your sojourn?

There should be. After almost a year, she had a right to expect to have resolved her dilemma, or come up with alternative plans for how she intended to spend the rest of her life. Estelle pushed this increasingly persistent worry to one side. ‘I have nothing in my sights, save luncheon.’

She meant it flippantly, simply as a means of changing the subject, but Mr Malahide checked his watch, looking dismayed. ‘I don’t know where the time has gone. We’ve been sitting here for more than an hour.’

‘Really?’ Estelle exclaimed, ‘I had no idea. I—I’ve enjoyed our conversation, Mr Malahide.’

‘I have too, Miss Brannagh, very much. I’ve talked little but mathematics for nigh on nine months, and barely a word of it in my own language.’

‘You must have an excellent command of Italian.’

‘I studied here when I was younger and picked it up then. Your own linguistic skills must be impressive, given that you’ve managed to negotiate France, Spain and now Italy.’

‘Impressive is not the word I’d have chosen. I learned from textbooks, not from a tutor. I’ve been the unwitting source of hilarity in several inns and restaurants. Eggs, I have found, are one of the trickiest words to pronounce in any tongue. In France I ordered oafs, in Spain hoovos, and here in Italy, oova.’

He laughed. ‘Then what talent do you possess, for I refuse to believe as impressive a young woman as yourself is not blessed with some gift?’

‘I am fond of music,’ Estelle said, rolling her eyes inwardly at this understatement. ‘I have a good ear and a facility for playing almost any instrument.’

‘Now I am truly impressed, for though I enjoy music very much, I’m tone deaf and have a singing voice reminiscent of a distressed Wicklow lamb. Did you know there is a strong connection between music and mathematics?’

‘I did not.’

‘Shall I bore you with it over lunch? That is, if I’ve not intruded too much on your time already?’

Estelle had received many invitations to dine. Having naively accepted several in the early days of her travels, she had quickly realised that an invitation issued by a single man to a single woman tended to imply a hunger for something other than food, rather than a genuine desire to get to know someone. Thus, it was her policy to refuse all but those issued by names on Eloise’s list. It was perfectly acceptable for a woman to eat alone, she had discovered, and she had enjoyed doing so. Which made it all the more curious that she accepted this invitation with alacrity.

‘That’s not an offer a person hears every day,’ she said, pushing back her chair. ‘I’d be delighted to join you for lunch.’

Chapter Two

Resisting the urge to take her to one of Florence’s more prestigious ristorante, Aidan decided to risk sharing his favourite humble osteria. ‘The food is simple,’ he said, ‘but it’s much more typical of the region. The kind of dishes that would be served at home, the receipts handed down from mother to daughter.’

‘I thought you viewed food as fuel, Mr Malahide?’

He shrugged sheepishly. ‘I’m Irish, a bit of blarney comes naturally. The truth is, I like food well enough, provided it’s honest and authentic.’

‘That is precisely the kind of food my sister Phoebe loves,’ Miss Brannagh replied, to his surprise, ‘despite the fact that she trained in Paris, in the kitchen of the great Pascal Solignac’s restaurant, La Grande Taverne de Londres.’

‘Judging by the somewhat contemptuous tone in your voice, you are not a fan.’

They were walking along the banks of the Arno, the more scenic if less direct route to the osteria, and Miss Brannagh stopped to gaze up river to the view of the Ponte Vecchio. ‘I am not a fan of Monsieur Solignac the chef or the man,’ she said, her mouth curled into a sneer. ‘More importantly, I am very pleased to say, neither is Phoebe, nowadays. Excellent ingredients, traditional receipts, that is what she serves at Le Pas à Pas. The kind of food that people enjoy eating, not the kind that is served up to be admired.’

‘Is that what Monsieur Solignac does?’

‘I’ve never eaten his food, nor ever will. That man is a—’ Miss Brannagh caught herself short, biting her lip. ‘He treated my sister abominably,’ she finished, her eyes sparking fire, ‘but Phoebe—Phoebe has risen like a phoenix from the ashes. To see her presiding over her stove, in her own restaurant as I did just before I set out on my travels, made me immensely proud of her.’ She blinked, turning her gaze back to the river. ‘Excuse me.’

‘Don’t apologise. You clearly love your sister very dearly.’

‘I love both my sisters very much, we are very close, though of late, seeing them both blossom in their own ways, it’s made me wonder if we’ve been too close.’

‘Is that why you decided to travel the world, to escape them?’

Miss Brannagh laughed. ‘I’m not running from something or someone, I’m looking for something. Inspiration, you could call it. Both of my sisters are happily settled in their different ways. I envy them that—you know, the certainty they have, that they are making something of their lives. I’d like to do the same, but what I want I don’t seem to be able to find, and so far, I’ve not been able to think of an alternative.’

‘Would it be impertinent of me to ask what it is you’re looking for?’

‘Not impertinent but irrelevant, since I’ve had to accept that I am unlikely to find it.’ She shook her head impatiently. ‘I sound like a malcontent, when I am very much aware that I’m extremely fortunate to be able to do nothing at all, if I choose. You know I can’t imagine how we came to be talking about me again.’

‘Because you’re far more interesting than me?’

‘I cannot agree with you there. I know everything there is to know about me, and almost nothing about you, save that you are a mathematician—and I’ve never met a mathematician before. What is it about the subject that you find so fascinating?’

‘The fact that there is a rational answer to every problem,’ Aidan replied promptly. ‘No ambiguity, no doubt, no guesswork. Find the key, and the problem is solved.’

‘If only life were like that!’

‘My thoughts exactly.’ The dark shadow of the one question he knew now that he’d never resolve dampened his spirits for a second, but Aidan closed his mind to it. Looking down into the expectant face of the lovely Miss Brannagh, it was an easy thing to do. He felt he ought to pinch himself, just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, but if he was, he didn’t want to wake up. Though for a man who might be dreaming, he’d never felt so alive. It wasn’t only her looks, though she was quite beautiful, with her heart-shaped face and big hazel eyes, lips that really were the colour of cherries, and that hair—true Titian red. Beautiful—yes, she most certainly was that, but it was her earthiness—dreadful word—which made heads turn as she walked past. Her figure was voluptuous. Her smile was generous. She possessed a certain vibrancy, like the warmth of the setting sun. She positively glowed with life. And she seemed determined to live it too. She could not be more different from…

‘You much prefer order, then, Mr Malahide? Mr Malahide?’

‘Order?’ He nodded furiously. ‘Indeed I do. And certainty, and logic. Predictable outcomes. Recognisable patterns—that’s where mathematics and music cross paths. Are you really interested?’

‘I truly am.’

She sounded as if she meant it. Though he had not meant to launch into a lecture, it seemed he had done just that when, coming to a halt he looked back with astonishment at the distance they had walked. ‘I did warn you I’d bore you.’

‘You didn’t. I was hanging on your every word. What’s more I actually understood at least half of what you said. You make it all sound so obvious.’

‘Well that’s because it is, when you have the key, as I said.’ Aidan grimaced. ‘Sadly, what I’ve discovered is that while I’m very good at using the key to unlock the problem, I don’t possess the creative vision, I suppose you’d call it, to actually discover the key myself. Studying here, in the shadow of some of the great, ground-breaking mathematicians, has forced me to acknowledge my limitations.’

‘I think you underestimate yourself. You’ve explained it to me in a way I can understand, and what’s more, you made it sound almost interesting.’

‘That’s an achievement, all right,’ he agreed, laughing. ‘Any time you find yourself with a spare hour or two, let me know and I’ll bore you some more. You’d be astonished how much more sense the world makes when you understand the mathematics that underpin it, from nature to the artefacts in the Uffizi that you so despise.’

‘Shh, that is our secret.’ Miss Brannagh glanced theatrically over her shoulder. ‘And I don’t actually despise art, I just don’t understand why people get so passionate about it.’

‘Aren’t you passionate about music?’

‘Yes, but it is a personal pleasure. I don’t feel the need to bore all and sundry on the subject.’

‘Well that’s me put firmly in my place.’

Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘I didn’t mean…’

‘I’m teasing you.’

‘Oh! We used to tease each other mercilessly at home, but I’m afraid I’ve rather lost the knack, Mr Malahide.’

‘Call me Aidan, and I promise to help you rediscover your ability to tease and be teased.’

‘Then you must call me Estelle, and I would caution you to be careful what you wish for.’

He grinned. ‘Oh, I think I’m prepared to take that chance. Now, here we are at last.’

Aidan watched her anxiously as they were seated in the rustic, verging on basic osteria, the proprietor raising his brows theatrically when he saw Estelle preceding him into the cool of the dark little room, silently mouthing Bella.

‘As I said, it’s an unpretentious eatery.’

To his relief, she saw the charm in the old-fashioned inn. ‘I love it. It’s the sort of place where you just know the food is going to be excellent.’

‘There’s not much choice. Not any choice, really. We eat whatever Signora Giordano has concocted from what was fresh in the market today. And we drink the wine from Signor Giordano’s father’s vineyard,’ Aidan added, as the proprietor approached with a terracotta jug and two thick glasses. ‘How are you, signor?’ he asked, in Italian.

‘God has spared me for another day,’ Signor Giordano replied in his usual lugubrious manner, his attention fixed on Aidan’s guest. ‘Signorina, you have brought the sunshine into our dining room this afternoon.’

He flicked a cloth over the already clean-scrubbed wooden table, before pouring the wine and rattling off the day’s menu, beaming when Estelle asked for clarification, beaming even more widely when she smiled her approval.

‘Your command of Italian is a great deal better than you led me to believe,’ Aidan said when they were finally left alone with a basket of crusty bread, a dish of Tuscan olive oil and a platter of pinzimonio, raw vegetables which today included red peppers, cucumbers, radish and chicory.

Surveying the platter hungrily, Estelle merely shrugged. ‘In essence Italian, French and Spanish are very similar.’ She picked up a baton of peeled cucumber, salted it and dipped it in the olive oil before biting into it. ‘Everything here tastes of sunshine.’

The oil glistened on her mouth. Fascinated, Aidan watched as she picked up her wine glass, took a sip, licked her full bottom lip, then carefully selected a slice of pepper, repeating the process. It had been so long since he’d experienced any sort of desire, it took him a moment to recognise it for what it was. Her kisses would taste of olive oil and wine. Making love to her would be a feast of sensation, a long, lingering delight of soft, giving flesh and hot, hungry lips and caressing hands. Not a duty. Not a means to a desperate end. A pleasure, pure and simple.

‘Aren’t you hungry?’

Appalled by the carnal turn his thoughts had taken, Aidan grabbed a piece of bread and tore it in half, sweat prickling his back, the physical proof of his desire pressing uncomfortably against his leg. ‘Pacing myself,’ he muttered, taking a swig of wine.

‘Affettati misti.’ Signor Giordano presented the next platter with a flourish. ‘Buon appetite.’

‘Salami with fennel,’ Aidan deduced, inspecting the platter. ‘More salami, that one with green peppercorns. Prosciutto, naturally, and some bresaola, which is smoked beef—signora is serving us some real delicacies. May I help you to some?’

‘You may help me to a little of all of it, thank you. How on earth did you discover this place? I would never have found it. Do you think they will mind if I come back alone?’

‘Judging by Signor Giordano’s reaction to you, I’d wager he’d happily keep the best table in the house free each and every day in the hope that you might turn up. It’s the same in Café Piccioli where you have your breakfast. Did you know that the waiter reserves your seat for you? I saw him yesterday, before you arrived, shooing someone away who dared to sit down at your preferred table.’

‘I didn’t realise. I expect I over-tip hugely.’

‘I expect that they would give you your coffee and pastry for free, simply to have you gracing the premises.’

Estelle coloured. ‘I wish you wouldn’t say things like that. Do you think I play on my appearance to get preferential treatment?’

‘Of course not.’

She took a draught of her wine, placing the glass carefully on the table before fixing him with a firm gaze. ‘I am not a piece of art to be stared and gawked at, you know.’

Wondering what particular nerve he had inadvertently hit, Aidan was surprised into a bark of laughter. ‘I meant it as a compliment.’ Seeing her unconvinced, he risked covering her hands with his own, across the table. ‘You’re right to reprimand me, though I stand by what I said. Your beauty is quite dazzling, and whether you like it or not, people will be drawn to—to gawk at you. But I didn’t invite you to lunch because I wanted to bask in your shadow. I was enjoying our conversation, and I wanted to get to know you better. It’s the truth, Estelle, and if you don’t believe me, ask yourself why I brought you here and not shown you off in one of the ristorante where the great and the good eat. Look around you. You will attract a few fleeting glances, but once the food is on the table, that’s all people here are interested in.’

She smiled reluctantly. ‘In that case, I shall eat here every day.’

‘Don’t you mind eating alone?’

‘I’d become accustomed to it at Elmswood Manor. That is—was—my home in England.’

‘It sounds very grand.’

‘Some of it dates back to the reign of William and Mary, though it’s been much adapted and altered over the years.’

‘Have you lived in England long, then?’

Estelle, who had been staring down at her plate, frowning, stared at him blankly, so that he repeated his question. ‘Since I was fifteen. I don’t mind,’ she added, ‘eating alone—that’s what you asked me—I don’t mind it. I much prefer it, in fact, to eating with strangers.’

‘And once again,’ he said, wondering what she’d really being thinking about, ‘that’s put me in my place.’

Estelle’s frown cleared. ‘I don’t mean you—though you are undeniably a stranger to me. Isn’t it odd, I feel as if I’ve known you for far longer than an hour or so. But then that’s most likely because I’ve talked more to you in this last hour or so than to anyone since I left England—made conversation, I mean, proper conversation, as opposed to the usual pleasantries about the weather.’

‘Would you believe me if I told you I feel the same?’

‘Surely you have made some friends here, after all this time?’

‘Some of my fellow mathematicians are amenable enough. But I’ve preferred my own company, by and large,’ Aidan confessed, surprising himself. ‘Until now.’

‘So have I,’ Estelle said. ‘Until now.’

A tense little silence ensued, as they smiled awkwardly, their hands resting on the table, just a few inches from each other. He wanted to touch her. Just to cover her hand with his, as he’d done a moment ago. It was almost as if he was compelled to touch her, drawn to her, as he had been from the moment he’d first set eyes on her.

‘Finito?’

Estelle started at the proprietor’s interruption, snatching her hands from the table. As Signor Giordano whipped away the empty plates with a flourish, she tried to collect her thoughts. What had just happened there? She realised it wasn’t just Aidan’s conversation she was enjoying, it was him. She hadn’t ever felt like this before, but there was no mistaking it for what it was—attraction, and a very visceral, intense one at that, which was unmistakably reciprocated.

‘Stracciatella,’ Signor Giordan announced, setting the bowls down. ‘Egg soup made with beef stock and thickened with ground almonds.’

Estelle picked up her spoon. ‘It smells delicious.’

‘Delicious,’ Aidan echoed.

He smiled, and her tummy gave an odd little lurch in response. She smiled back foolishly, and their gazes held for a long moment, long enough for her tummy to flutter again, for her skin to prickle with heat. ‘I must write this receipt down for my sister,’ Estelle said, because she felt she had to say something. For heaven’s sake, he really wasn’t at all handsome. Though he did have the most irresistible smile. ‘Do you have any siblings?’

‘I have one older sister, Clodagh. She seems to think that gives her the right to organise my life, despite the fact that she has a husband and three children of her own.’

‘But you adore her, really, don’t you?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Aidan grinned. ‘Never more so than when we’re a thousand miles apart. Actually, I don’t mean that. She has my best interests at heart, it’s just that…’

‘Her idea of what that constitutes and yours don’t necessarily align?’

‘There speaks the voice of experience. Is—remind me of your eldest sister’s name?—is she cast in the same mould?’

‘Eloise. And, yes, she is, in a way, though I can’t blame her, for she had to stand in for our mother practically from the moment Phoebe and I were born.’

‘Clodagh had to step into the breach too. Our mother died when I was a babe, not more than two years old. I hardly remember her.’

‘Do you see much of her?’

His face clouded. ‘Not so much these days. She has three boys to raise, so she has enough on her plate. I tend to leave her to it. She lives just outside Wicklow, about fifty miles from Cashel Duairc.’

‘Cashel Doo-ark?’ Estelle mouthed, frowning. ‘Dark Castle?’

‘Brooding, or gloomy, would be a more accurate translation, though the name refers to a previous castle on the site.’

‘Is it your home, then? Do you actually live in a proper castle?’

‘Oh, yes, replete with a lake and turrets, battlements and even a dungeon. Pretty much everything save a moat.’

‘And a resident ghost, no doubt?’

The wine he had been pouring slopped on to the table as his hand suddenly shook. Aidan set the jug down, mopping up the mess with his napkin. ‘Too many to mention.’ He took a draught of wine. ‘Ah good, here comes our next course,’ he said with palpable relief.

‘Pappardelle sulla lepre,’ Signor Giordano announced with a reverence which was entirely justified by the aroma rising from the plate, the gamey smell of hare mingling with wine, garlic and tomatoes.

Aidan was embarrassed, she decided. A mathematician ought not to believe in ghosts, but his dark and gloomy castle obviously harboured something that defied logic and reason. She longed to question him, but she didn’t want to embarrass him further. Picking up her fork and spoon, the first mouthful of the hare ragu made her forget all about ghosts. Her toes curled with pleasure. ‘Delizioso.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Aidan said, smiling once again, raising his glass.

‘You haven’t even tasted it yet.’

‘I wasn’t referring to the dish.’

‘Food can be delicious, wine can be delicious, but you can’t describe a person as delicious, that’s ridiculous.’ Though what was ridiculous, Estelle told herself, was to blush at such an odd compliment.

His smile broadened, but he shook his head, refusing to be drawn, and the conversation turned to Florence and remained there, until they had both finished the pasta, and the plates had once more been cleared. ‘Would you like cheese, an ice, coffee?’ he asked.

‘No to all, thank you very much. What I need is to walk off this excellent lunch.’ She hesitated only briefly this time. ‘Would you like to…?’

‘Very much. Give me a minute to settle the bill.’

They made their way back to the Arno, walking along the riverbank as far as the Ponte alla Carraia, pausing in the middle of the bridge to look downriver. It was late afternoon and the sun was obscured by a heat haze, turning the river muddy and sluggish, the usually bright reflections of the buildings on the banks shimmering shadows. The air was damp, not so humid as to be unpleasant but languid, as if the sun were too sleepy to burn the mist away.

They retraced their steps on the opposite side of the river. There were fewer people about at this time of day, and their large lunch had made them both as lethargic as the afternoon, content to wander slowly, to gaze about them at the serene, confident beauty of the city. Estelle talked of her travels, reticent at first, made more garrulous by Aidan’s obvious interest and his perceptive questions.

At exactly the moment when she was beginning to crave a cool drink, he suggested they stop and a little café seemed to appear out of nowhere. She sat beside him at the tiny marble-topped table looking out over the Arno, their knees brushing, her mood as serene as the city. ‘Cashel Duairc. It sounds ridiculously romantic, your home. Is it very old?’

‘Parts of it go back a few hundred years, but the current castle was rebuilt more recently. There’s all sorts of papers, accounts and deeds in the attics. My father was always saying that someone should write a history of the place, but no one ever has.’

‘How exciting. No, really,’ Estelle said, in answer to his sceptical look, ‘there were all sorts of documents in the attics at Elmswood Manor which we consulted to help with the restoration. The walled garden, for example, had fallen into a complete state of disrepair, and I discovered one of the original drawings, along with a map from around the time it had been laid out, allowing Aunt Kate to restore the garden to its original condition. Elmswood Manor is Aunt Kate’s home,’ she explained, seeing Aidan’s confusion. I think I mentioned, she took the three of us in when we were orphaned. It’s a long story, and beside the point. How lucky you are, to have such an archive waiting to be investigated.’

‘You are serious! Should you like to be my archivist?’

‘Yes, please! I am fascinated by old documents.’

‘Good Lord!’ Aidan exclaimed. ‘No wonder the time has passed so quickly today, since we have far more in common than anyone would ever imagine, looking at the pair of us. We are both crusty academics, in our own way.’

Estelle chuckled, but shook her head. ‘One cannot claim to be an academic when one is utterly uneducated. I know nothing of the classics, nor have any interest in them. Ancient history, it seems to me, is nothing more than stories and speculation. I’ve no intentions of visiting Rome, or any of the other popular ancient sites recommended in all the guide books. And I’m not interested in battles and wars or much in politics either.’

‘I was force fed all the classics at school, and I came to much the same conclusion, that it was all speculation. Opinion tacked on to the few known facts.’

‘But weren’t some of the greatest mathematicians ancient Greeks?’

‘Yes, but it’s their work I’m interested in, not—oh, I don’t know, philosophy, history or archaeology.’

‘What has always struck me, reading history books, even recent ones, is how absent women are from the stories they tell. Of course they didn’t take part in important battles, and they were not permitted to be politicians, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t play any sort of role. Take Aunt Kate. Will history take any notice of the key role she has played not only in preserving Elmswood Manor for Uncle Daniel’s heir, but in restoring it to its former glory? To my knowledge, Aunt Kate doesn’t keep a diary. My uncle rarely writes, and what she does with his letters I have no idea. The only evidence of her contribution will be in the account books and all the domestic paperwork—there, I told you you’d be bored.’

‘On the contrary, I’m fascinated. Where is Uncle Daniel and why doesn’t he write?’

‘It’s complicated.’

When she said nothing more, Aidan shrugged and set a stack of coins down on the table. ‘Shall we?’

‘Yes.’ But Estelle made no attempt to move. ‘I had started writing a history of Elmswood, but my time there is over now—by choice, I may add.’ She got to her feet, giving herself a mental shake. ‘And now I find myself collecting recipes for Phoebe while I traverse the Continent. It’s my way of apologising for not taking her venture seriously. A practical reparation, of a sort. Any time you find yourself with a spare hour or two,’ she said, ‘feel free to assist me in my research.’

‘Have a care, for I’m almost certain to take you up on that.’

He offered his arm, and it seemed perfectly in order, as they started walking, to tuck her hand into it. She had never strolled in this way with a man before, their paces matching, the skirts of his coat brushing against the pleats of her gown. It felt perfectly natural, yet it unsettled her at the same time. She was acutely aware of him as a man, of the difference in their heights, his solid presence at her side. For a woman of twenty-five who had been travelling around Europe on her own, she was remarkably inexperienced. Her instincts told her that she could trust Aidan, but could she trust her judgement? Was she being naïve? After all, she had been caught out before, in the early days of her trip. They had spent almost a full day in each other’s company, but without anyone else to vouch for him…

‘What is it, Estelle? You’re frowning.’

‘I was thinking how strange this is—our encounter today, I mean. If this was England and not Florence, we’d never even have dared to take coffee together.’

‘Without an introduction, you mean? I’m very much aware of that. It’s one of the reasons I didn’t approach you before, though I wanted to.’

‘I know, you said you were worried that I’d think you were accosting me. I admit I have been, several times, but I’ve become very adept at rebuffing unwelcome advances. I’ve learned that men seem to assume that any female of a certain age on her own is desperate for their charming company,’ Estelle said sardonically. ‘I knew you were not like that though, because when our eyes met that first time…’

‘On Monday?’

‘Was it only Monday?’ She was blushing. ‘You could easily have taken my looking at you as encouragement, but you didn’t. Not that I was, though I was staring, and I don’t. Not as a rule. Not ever. In fact you are an—an aberration.’

‘You have an endearing habit of bestowing back-handed compliments.’ He quirked a smile. ‘But, speaking for myself, I’d very much like us to continue in this irregular vein—if, that is, you would like to?’ He scanned her face anxiously as she hesitated. ‘You wouldn’t like to? In that case…’

‘It’s not that.’

‘Then you’re wondering what my intentions are?’

Blushing, she nodded. ‘It is not for a moment that I think you dishonourable…’

‘But you’ve encountered too many men on your travels who are?’ Aidan ushered them into the shade of a tree. ‘I’ve no intentions or expectations, save to enjoy more of your company if I’m permitted to. Just to be absolutely clear, and I hope you won’t think me presumptuous, I’m not in the market for a wife, but I’ve absolutely no nefarious intentions either, I can promise you that hand on heart,’ he said, suiting actions to words. ‘I’m no seducer, I pride myself on being an honourable man, and despite the fact that you’re travelling the world all alone, it’s patently obvious that you’re no adventuress. There now, have I cleared the air?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Then shall we call ourselves friends?’

‘Yes, I’d like that.’ She took his arm again and they walked on in silence, but halfway across the Ponte alle Grazie they stopped once more, this time distracted by the view. The falling sun cast a warm glow on the buildings on the opposite bank, making a golden haze of their reflections in the now still waters of the Arno. Estelle leaned on the parapet to watch as the shutters were being pulled down on the shops which lined the Ponte Vecchio. ‘It’s breathtakingly lovely, isn’t it?’

‘As a backdrop, but so is the subject.’

She turned to face him and her breath caught as their eyes met.

‘May I see you again tomorrow, or is it too soon?’

She didn’t hesitate. ‘It’s not too soon.’

He smiled. They stood together watching the sun sinking and the sky fading from gold to pink before they turned of one accord to continue over the bridge. He walked her to the door of her pension. They made arrangements to meet in the morning. When she bid him farewell, he took her hand, raising it to his lips, before pressing a kiss to her gloved fingertips. She rushed up the stairs to her room, pushing back the shutters to lean out, and he turned and waved. It was the perfect end to a perfect day.

Chapter Three

‘I love to wander aimlessly like this, but I’m always a bit wary to do so on my own. Now I’ve you to chaperon me, I don’t have to worry.’

Estelle smiled up at him, her eyes gleaming with humour, and Aidan exhaled sharply. He really had to stop thinking about kissing her. ‘I’m a mathematician, not a prize fighter, I’ll have you know.’

‘And here was I thinking that beneath your coat there was a rigid wall of muscle, when it’s just padding. I should have brought my parasol, at least then I’d have a weapon.’

He swore to himself as another part of him threatened to become rigid when she squeezed his arm playfully. He was acutely aware of her every touch—the brush of her skirts with the hint of warm limb beneath, the cushioned bump of her thigh or the sharp nudge of her shoulder, her fingers twined around his arm. Was it the same for her? She certainly made no attempt to maintain distance between them, but perhaps that was because she didn’t notice! Yet in the café where they met this morning, when their hands were resting on the table, their fingers just brushing, there had been one of those moments when their eyes met and he was sure she felt that awareness of the contact that was both a pleasure and a pain because it wasn’t nearly enough. He swore again, shaking his head at himself. He was a mature thirty-year-old, not an overeager juvenile.

Though he couldn’t deny it was both a relief and a pleasure to learn that side of him wasn’t after all quite dead. How long had it been since he’d felt so free of cares and glad to be alive? Not that he could remember ever feeling quite like this before, and besides, he didn’t want the past to intrude on a day like this, with the sun shining, and with a woman so vibrantly full of life on his arm that he was able to persuade himself, just for now, that his slate had been wiped clean.

‘Welcome back.’ Estelle smiled at him again. ‘You’ve no idea that you do that, have you? One minute you’re here, the next minute, the shutters come down. Don’t worry, I promise not to pry into your darkest secrets if you promise not to pry into mine.’

‘I can’t believe you have any.’

‘I don’t have any thoughts at all. Sure, didn’t I tell you,’ she said, thickening her accent just as he did when jesting, ‘that I’m as empty-headed a female as any man could desire.’

‘You’ve a very low opinion of my sex.’

‘I’ve a very low opinion of those of your sex I’ve encountered on my travels. That’s a very different thing. Yourself excepted of course—in fact, in future it would be easier if you just assume that you’re the exception to every one of my rules.’

‘Thank you kindly, but surely—Estelle, you must have encountered some more worthy specimens in three countries over the space of so many months.’

‘You’re right, I’m probably being unfair, but my experience has not been particularly positive. It comes of being single and female and—well, looking as I do.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘People make assumptions—women too, to be fair—that red hair denotes a passionate nature would be to put it kindly, more crudely an indiscriminate one. Of course not all men are like that, I do know that. Certainly those on the list my sister gave me have been extremely respectful.’

‘Diplomats, I assume?’

‘For the most part, and all of the utmost good character. Why is it that good character seems to go hand in hand with boring character?’

‘I sincerely hope that once again I’m an exception to your rule?’

‘You are indeed, though I notice you didn’t deny having something to hide when we were discussing dark secrets earlier.’

She was teasing, but her smile faded at his expression. ‘Everyone has regrets,’ Aidan said, ‘I am no different.’

Would Estelle see him in a very different light if she knew the truth? Fortunately, he’d never know. There would be time enough to face up to the past when he returned to Ireland, but for now he wanted to savour this welcome respite, a chance to remember the person he’d once been, and to enjoy being that person again. It was just a pity that he’d not met her earlier, for the clock was already ticking on their day-old acquaintance.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he said, covering her hand with his. ‘My only recent crime is that I’ve been less than assiduous in my studies this last month or so, and frittering away my time. I reckon I’ve been waiting on you turning up.’

‘The fates must have conspired to bring us together then. Though I didn’t realise it until we met yesterday, I’ve become rather bored with my own company.’

They had arrived in a little piazza on the outskirts of the old town. There had been a food market earlier, judging by the tatty bits of greenery that were strewn around. Water spouted from a worn lion’s head into a small fountain in one corner. Estelle cupped her hand to drink from it, yanking it back when she remembered that she was still wearing her gloves.

‘Here, let me,’ Aidan said, making a cup of both his hands.

She hesitated only for a second before dipping her head and drinking. Her tongue brushed against his palm. He exhaled sharply. She stopped drinking. Their eyes locked. Water dripped down his fingers on to the cobblestones. A droplet glistened on the indent of her top lip. He brushed it away, heard her exhale as sharply as he had done. She stepped towards him. His heart was pounding. Her hand fluttered up to his cheek. He dipped his head, she lifted hers, and their lips met. Icy cold water, warm flesh. He felt dizzy with the delight of it, allowed himself a moment to relish the sheer pleasure of it, before stepping back.

Her face, shadowed by the brim of her bonnet, reflected his own feelings—wide-eyed, flushed, uncertain, as if she had imagined it. ‘Estelle,’ he said, then stopped, for she shook her head, and he had no idea what to say anyway.

‘Do you like churches?’ she asked. ‘Not grand cathedrals but workaday churches, I mean, like that one, that smell of incense and candles and the congregation. Do you like them?’

At this moment, he reckoned if she’d asked him if he liked pickled herring he’d have told her it was his favourite food, but in fact he did like churches, the sort she’d described, very much. ‘I do,’ he said, taking her arm again. ‘Shall we go and take a look?’

It was a lovely church, as far as Estelle was concerned, with no cavernous nave or fresco-adorned ceiling, but a simple affair with plain wooden pews, a scrubbed flagstoned floor, and a wooden altar. The icons on each of the side chapels were not painted by any master, though they were so old that the painted panels were cracking, but the flowers were fresh, and the church had the peaceful atmosphere of a place well used by the devout.

She wandered off on her own, trying to calm her racing pulses. She’d been kissed before. A good many kisses had been snatched from her or pressed upon her, during her early travels, before she’d become adept at spotting the warning signs, but she didn’t count those as kisses. Received and never freely given, they had variously disgusted, repelled or angered her. But Aidan’s kiss was very different. Firstly this, her first real kiss, had been as much her doing as his. She’d wanted him to kiss her, and he had duly obliged. Secondly, she was certain he wouldn’t have, if he’d thought for a moment he was forcing himself on her. Which was why she wanted to kiss him again. That, and the fact that it had been too brief, that first kiss. It had made her feel as if she were flying and melting at the same time, and that was the most important reason of all.

Was it wrong of her to want to kiss him again? Aidan had been on the brink of apologising. Yet he had been the one to end it before it had really begun. He doubtless worried that he had taken advantage of her innocence. Which he hadn’t because she’d wanted him to kiss her and he knew that, because otherwise he wouldn’t have.

She was going round in circles. Exasperated, Estelle rolled her eyes at herself. For goodness sake, it was just a kiss! A delightful kiss, but hardly one fraught with danger, not in broad daylight in the middle of a piazza. A delightful moment in a delightful day that she refused to spoil by analysing it any further.

She’d made a full circuit of the church now, and joined Aidan where he was standing beside a rather battered harpsichord.

‘Well,’ he asked her, ‘is it to your taste? The church, I mean?’

‘Very much. In the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, in any of the big churches in this city actually, you feel as if God is so remote as to almost not be present. Here, you feel He is so much more approachable, as if you could just sit down there and talk to Him. Do you think that’s an odd thing to say?’

‘If it is, then that makes oddities of both of us for I feel exactly the same. Clodagh fears that I’ll return to Ireland a convert to Catholicism. I told her that it would be no bad thing,’ Aidan said, ‘for it would give me something else in common with the majority of my tenants. But my sister, though a liberal in many ways, is very much a traditionalist when it comes to the subject of religion.’

‘Are you likely to become a convert?’

He shook his head, smiling wryly. ‘That would require me to have strong feelings on the subject, and I don’t. Look at this now. You claimed to be able to play almost any instrument, a church harpsichord should present no challenge.’

Estelle sat on the stool and opened the lid reverentially. The keys were worn, but when she struck some experimental soft chords, she discovered that the instrument was perfectly in tune. Her fingers twitched, feeling the connection, as if the harpsichord was begging to be brought to life. ‘I shouldn’t, not without permission,’ she whispered.

‘There’s no one around,’ Aidan replied, ‘go on, I dare you.’

Bach’s French Suite flowed from her fingertips to the keyboard, and she was quickly lost, playing her favourite movement, the fifth, meaning to stop there but finding her fingers flying on to the next and then the next as the music swooped and soared around the small church. She brought the seventh to a flourishing close, resting her hands on the keys and breathing deeply with the kind of intense satisfaction that only music could provide.

Aidan’s applause made her eyes fly open. She blushed deeply. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…’

‘Please don’t apologise. That was quite breathtaking.’

‘You told me you’d not a musical bone in your body.’

‘Estelle, you made me feel as if I had heartstrings that were being plucked. You have a rare talent.’

‘Raw talent, perhaps. I’ve never really had any lessons.’

‘Then you’re even more talented than I thought. You played for almost fifteen minutes without sheet music and as far as I could tell you didn’t make one mistake.’

‘I should think not, the number of times I’ve played that piece. We had hardly any sheet music when I was little, so the few we had, I played over and over again. That was one of them.’

‘You’ll think this sounds fanciful, but it was as if the music poured straight from your heart through your fingers and on to the keys and then into the air, filling the church with beauty.’

She stared at him, quite dumbstruck for a moment. ‘That is possibly the loveliest compliment anyone has ever paid me.’

‘I find that hard to believe. Anyone who has heard you play…’

‘They are few in number. My sisters, mostly, so they’re bound to think I’m good.’ She closed the lid of the harpsichord, frowning. ‘I wonder if that is why Phoebe opened her restaurant, because she needed some independent approbation of her cooking. I never thought of that before.’

‘Perhaps you should play in an orchestra.’

Estelle shuddered. ‘It was a family joke, that Phoebe would open a restaurant and I would establish an orchestra, but I never thought of it as anything other than a bit of fun. I don’t like to play for strangers.’

‘Then I’m extremely honoured.’

‘You’re not a stranger, I thought we’d agreed that yesterday.’

‘We did, and now we’ve known each other almost two days, I suppose we should consider ourselves old friends. Look Estelle, what happened earlier…’

‘Please don’t apologise,’ she interrupted hastily. ‘You must know perfectly well that I wanted you to kiss me. There’s nothing to apologise for, or to discuss. I’m twenty-five years old, Aidan.’

He held his hands up. ‘But if we were in England…’

‘I’m a woman of independent means, with a mind of my own and I’m not in England. I’m beginning to wish that we hadn’t kissed now.’

‘Well I’m not, despite the fact that I know we shouldn’t have.’

‘Oh. Good. Then why are we arguing?’

‘I’ve no notion at all.’

‘Can we forget about conventions and rules, and what we ought to do, and what people might say? Forget all about the real world for a little while?’

‘You’ve no idea how much I crave that.’

There was the slightest tremor in his voice. She touched his arm tentatively. ‘What did I say to upset you?’

‘Nothing. Your playing moved me, that’s all.’

She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t want to upset him further, and having agreed to forget about the real world, she didn’t feel she had the right to enquire either. ‘It was written for the organ, that piece. You don’t get the full majesty of it on a harpsichord.’

His smile was grateful. ‘You do know there’s an organ here too?’

‘It’s quite usual for a church to have both. A pipe organ is operated by a lever which works enormous bellows. It’s very strenuous work and tends to be saved for high days and holidays, since it’s difficult to find volunteers for the task. The rest of the time a harpsichord will suffice.’

‘Are the bellows too strenuous for a feeble mathematician, do you think?’

‘Aidan, you can’t possibly mean—the harpsichord is one thing but I would not be comfortable playing the official church organ without permission. It would be sacrilegious.’

‘There is no one to ask. Do you honestly think God would mind?’ Aidan said, ushering her towards the instrument. ‘I take it this lever is the bellows. How do I…?’

‘Slowly!’ Laughing, Estelle sat down, flexing her fingers. ‘And regularly—like you’re pumping water.’

She tested a chord, and it blared out, making Aidan jump and making her laugh more. She played a series of intricate scales, and then, with a theatrical flourish, the opening bars of Bach’s most famous piece for the organ, the Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, before launching into the piece, playing it with a dramatic gusto that had Aidan, as she had intended, struggling to contain his laughter as he worked the bellows. When she was done, collapsing over the keyboard herself in gales of laughter, he applauded with a gusto to match her own, calling bravo, and it was only when he ceased that the pair of them realised he was not alone in his applause.

‘Mi scusi,’ Estelle said, jumping to her feet, horrified.

But the priest smiled, extending his hand. ‘I didn’t know our humble organ could produce such a wonderful sound, signora. It was a pleasure to hear. Music is one of God’s gifts and we can celebrate Him in many different ways. You seem such a nice young couple. Please, feel free to come in and play any time you are passing.’

‘He thinks we’re either married or engaged,’ Estelle said with mock horror when they got outside.

‘We are,’ Aidan said.

‘What!’

He grinned. ‘Engaged in the business of being friends. What else!’

The next day, their meanderings brought them to another part of the city and another dusty little piazza where a few rickety wooden tables had been set outside an osteria.

‘I think we might claim one of those,’ Aidan said, ‘what do you think?’

‘I think you know perfectly well that you didn’t need to ask,’ Estelle replied.

The wine was rough, but the ribollita, a peasant soup made of stale bread, tomatoes and beans, Estelle pronounced delicious. ‘More a stew than a soup, and very filling, which is just as well,’ she said, eyeing the next dish with some trepidation. ‘I didn’t quite catch what this was?’

‘Lampredotto. Tripe. I fear it’s an acquired taste. I can just about manage a couple of mouthfuls.’

‘I cannot contemplate even that.’ She grimaced. ‘What are we to do? I can’t possibly send back my plate untouched. It would be the ultimate insult. I can imagine how Phoebe would feel.’

Aidan took a large glug of wine, before quickly tipping the contents of her plate on to his. ‘Oh, no,’ she protested, appalled, ‘you’ll be ill.’

‘Ah but I’ll have the compensation of feeling noble.’

‘Aidan Malahide, you are a true knight errant,’ Estelle said, quite seriously, ‘let me pour you some more wine to help it down.’

He nodded, concentrating on the task in hand, and she concentrated on keeping his glass full. ‘Not so bad,’ he said when he had done, pushing his plate aside with a sigh of relief. ‘I expect an Italian would feel much the same, confronted with crubeens and cabbage.’

‘What on earth is a crubeen?’

‘You call yourself Irish! A boiled pig’s foot, of course. Have you really never tasted it?’

‘Have you?’ she asked, narrowing her eyes.

‘I have it served every Saturday—to my old grandmother’s receipt.’

‘That is a fib!’

Aidan laughed. ‘It is. My old grandmother, what little I remember of her, wouldn’t have known the way to the kitchen. A woman with a strong sense of her own importance, and a strict proponent of the rule that children should be seen and not heard. Clodagh and I used to dread having to visit her. Once a month my father took us—she lived in a town house in Kildare itself, my father having had the presence of mind to forcibly relocate her from the castle when he inherited—or perhaps it was my mother’s idea, I’m not sure. Anyway, for some reason my grandmother favoured me very much over poor Clodagh. At tea there would always be a big slab of cake and a glass of milk for me, while my sister was given water and a dry biscuit.’

‘What on earth had Clodagh done to offend the old lady?’

‘Nothing, she swears, and for myself, I didn’t do a thing to endear myself to her either.’

‘Save be your charming self.’

‘At the moment, I’m a very full self. As a reward for my noble act I claim as my prize your company for a post-prandial walk, Miss Brannagh. The Parco delle Cascine is just a few steps away from here, on the banks of the Arno.’

‘I would like that very much, kind sir. Without wishing to do your sister an injustice, I can quite easily see why your grandmother thought you so charming. Do you have any other relatives wrapped around your finger?’

‘Oh, whole heaps of cousins on my mother and father’s side. A few aunts and uncles too, scattered across Ireland and England. What about you?’

‘There are cousins on my father’s side, I believe, but none who would acknowledge us. When he married Mama they disowned him, and on her side—she eloped, and so her family disowned her too. My Uncle Daniel, my Aunt Kate’s husband, is Mama’s brother and so my closest relative.’

‘The mysterious absent uncle who rarely writes?’ Aidan asked, steering her through a set of gateposts into the woodland park.

‘The same. He is an explorer, and spends all his time abroad. Exploring.’ Estelle made a face. ‘To be honest, I’ve never quite understood what exactly that entails.’

‘Haven’t you asked him?’

‘I’ve never had the opportunity. He married Aunt Kate when his father died, about twelve years ago, which was a couple of years before she took us in.’

‘You mean he’s never been back since?’

‘The whole point of their marriage was to allow him to remain abroad. It is an arrangement that has suited them both very well, I assure you. Aunt Kate’s father was the estate manager for many years, so she was ideally placed to take on Elmswood Manor, and Uncle Daniel never wanted the responsibility.’

‘Good grief. Do you mean that your uncle and aunt have spent their entire married life living apart?’

‘They have, and what’s more have been very content doing so. For my part, I think Aunt Kate and Uncle Daniel did a very sensible thing.’

Aidan caught the hand she had withdrawn from his arm. ‘I didn’t mean to imply any criticism, I’m sorry. I assumed—you see for me, the only reason to marry would be to have a family.’

‘Actually,’ Estelle said, wondering at the shadow that crossed his countenance, ‘I happen to agree with you that it is the best reason, but that is not to say it is the only one.’

‘You’re right.’ Aidan was himself again. Perhaps she had imagined it. ‘Your aunt sounds like a very practical woman.’

‘And the kindest, most loving—and in fact, she has always said that we three are the children she never had. She is only related to us by marriage, yet she took us in when none of our own relatives were in the least bit interested in our fate.’

‘And you quite rightly won’t have a word said against her. I’m sorry.’ Looking down, seeing her eyes awash with tears, Aidan cursed. ‘I’ve made you cry.’

‘It’s not your fault.’

Casting a glance along the deserted pathway, he pulled her to one side before producing a large handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes. Half-laughing, she tried to bat him away. The handkerchief fluttered towards the ground and as she stumbled trying to catch it, Aidan caught her, righting her with a hand on each shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Perfectly.’

As he never wore gloves, she could feel the heat of his skin through the flimsy muslin of her summer gown. Her smile faltered as she met his eyes, and her heart skipped a beat, then began to beat far too fast. She closed her eyes. He kissed the teardrops from her lashes and she sighed. He whispered her name, and she opened her eyes, seeing the question in his, and she lifted her face.

Their lips met hesitantly. His short beard was surprisingly soft. He tasted of wine. His lips were warm on hers, and her heart was beating wildly. Anticipation and excitement edged with slight panic, for she had no idea what to do next.

As if he sensed this, he pulled her closer, sliding one arm around her waist, pressing little kisses to her bottom lip. She sighed, her apprehension evaporating, a liquid heat pooling in her tummy as he slid his other hand up her back, caressing the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck, teasing her lips apart with butterfly kisses, then moulding his mouth to hers, moving his lips gently. She followed his lead. As their kiss deepened, her body melted of its own accord against his. She clutched at his shoulder for balance, and beneath her lids, the world turned a flaming red.

When it ended, she gazed at him, dazed. Aidan’s eyes were heavy, gazing at her in the same stunned way. There was a hint of auburn in his beard at the corner of his mouth she hadn’t noticed before. She touched it, wonderingly, and he pressed his mouth to her open palm, and she caught her breath again, and it hung in the balance for a few seconds, the possibility of a second kiss, which she would have offered freely, before he smiled lopsidedly at her, setting her free from the circle of his arms.

And then they walked on, not quite as before, but in accord, because there was nothing to be said, passing a pyramid-shaped building which proved to be an ice house, and on, until the trees gave way to a piazza dominated by a fountain, surprisingly deserted. They sat on a bench in the shade, close enough for their bodies to touch, though they kept their gaze on the tinkling fountain. The park was silent, even the birds made drowsy and muted by the heat.

‘I didn’t think I was that sort of person,’ Estelle said dreamily. ‘The kind who kisses at the drop of a hat.’

Aidan gave a huff of laughter. ‘The drop of a handkerchief, to be more precise. Ironically, until I met you, I thought I was no longer that sort of person. It just goes to show how resilient nature is.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing.’ He reached for her hand. ‘You do know, Estelle, that if we were in England—or Ireland—it would be quite wrong for me to kiss you.’

‘I kissed you back.’

‘You know perfectly well what I mean. You may be well travelled, but you’re an innocent.’

‘Not so innocent that I can’t recognise that you have behaved like the honourable man I know you are, Aidan. Other men would have leapt at the offer of a second kiss, and probably pressed for a great deal more, whether it was offered or not. Not,’ she added hastily, seeing his horrified expression, ‘that I have been subjected to that, but there have been times when it could have become an issue, had I been a little less vigilant.’ She sighed, fiddling with the strings of her bonnet. ‘So please stop apologising. We agreed, didn’t we, that we would make our own rules?’

‘We did.’

Later, alone in her pension, realising she’d turned a page in her book without taking in a single word of what she’d read, Estelle cast her history of the Medicis aside. Today had been a revelation. Who would have thought that kissing could be so utterly delightful? Or more specifically, who would have thought that she could find kissing so utterly delightful? She had always found the idea of it frightening, a stormy expression of the unsavoury cocktail of hate and love which her parents felt for each other. And her actual experience, until she had kissed Aidan, had been distasteful. But kissing Aidan!

Jumping out of bed, she threw open the window to gaze out on to the piazza below. Kissing Aidan was like nothing she had ever imagined. For the first time, she understood how Phoebe’s passion for the arrogant but charismatic Frenchman could have flared. When she discovered that her twin had taken Solignac as a lover, she had been shocked to the core—not, as Phoebe assumed, because she had behaved scandalously, but because she claimed to be passionately in love. This, Estelle had always assumed, was the one emotion all three sisters were quite immune to, and happily so, given the appalling example of their parents’ tempestuous and ultimately miserable marriage. But Phoebe, thank goodness, had been cured of her passion for that French enfant terrible, and now that she’d got him well and truly out of her system, she had made a very sensible marriage much like Aunt Kate’s, which allowed her to concentrate on her true passion, for her restaurant.

Aidan, unlike the despised Solignac, was a man of honour. A man who would never take advantage of her. A man she could trust not to overstep the mark, even if she wished him to. It was likely that, this wild, insistent desire to taste more of Aidan’s kisses was a passing fancy, a fleeting passion of a very different nature than the one that had infected and driven her parents. Something to be relished, in fact, while it lasted. A little hiatus from the real world, and a much-needed break from worrying about the future.

Was she in thrall to Aidan, as Phoebe had been to her Frenchman? No, but she was enraptured, enchanted, fascinated and—oh, for heaven’s sake, attracted! They were kindred spirits who had both been alone too much, but they were also ships that must inevitably pass in the night.

Estelle threw herself back on her bed. For the next little while, she could enjoy Aidan’s company and his kisses for what they were. An interlude—an extremely pleasant one of say—a week—no, two weeks, before she left Florence for the next stop on her itinerary. Satisfied, she blew out her candle and lay back on the pillows, pressing her mouth to the back of her hand to relive today’s kisses, and to imagine tomorrow’s. If that was not being too greedy.

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